


flowers growing in my lungs; blooms rattling with every breath

by galaxiay



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Blood, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Hanahaki Disease, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon, au in which the south downs cottage doesnt happen, crowley hides his issues and aziraphale is Distressed, i know :(
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-05-13 20:21:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19258507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galaxiay/pseuds/galaxiay
Summary: hanahaki disease • 花吐き病an illness born from unrequited love, suffer's lungs fill with flowers and they proceed to cough up petals. as the illness progresses, they cough up blood and flowers. without surgery to remove the feelings or their love returned, the victim if fated to suffocate and die.Crowley is a demon and demons aren't meant to love. He makes the mistake of doing just that and suffers the consequences.





	flowers growing in my lungs; blooms rattling with every breath

_ANTHONY J. CROWLEY | 20XX_

It was a rare sunny day in London and Crowley was kneeling in front of the toilet in his flat. Just his luck; a nice day in the usually rainy city and he found himself here in less than pleasant circumstances. His hands were braced on the edges, his knuckles turning white as he tried to fight down the wave of nausea he knew would be coming and catch his breath. They came out in short, shuttering bursts, his golden eyes screwed shut with effort. A cold sweat seemed to cover every inch of skin. 

The nausea he had been bracing himself for suddenly hit with no warning and he swayed on his knees. _No, don’t you dare_ -! He thought, but his body clearly had other ideas. 

He pitched forward and hacked violently into the porcelain bowl. Instead of what one might have expected to come up, such as last night's dinner, flecks of blood fell from his lips, contrasting with the stark white of the toilet. Strange it was; he felt sick to his stomach, but everything coming from his mouth was being expelled from his lungs. The most peculiar, however, were the petals. 

Petals of chrysanthemums, roses, camellias, carnations, marigolds, and many others spilled from his lips, damp with both his blood and spit. He coughed and shuttered and heaved, trying to get everything out. This was one of the moments where Crowley forgot he technically didn’t have to breathe. Tears of strain pricked his eyes and he coughed harder, his throat burning, forcibly expelling the flowers obstructing his airway to the best of his ability. 

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the barrage of bouquets from his lungs died down; he was left dripping spit into the bowl, tinted pink with blood. After spitting once or twice in a (vain) attempt to rid himself of the metallic taste the permeated his mouth, he sat back on his heels. _It’s getting worse_ , he thought. 

With each shallow breath he took in an attempt to calm himself down and breathe properly again, he could practically hear the rattling of the petals still within his lungs and throat. He opened his eyes and quickly turned away from the tragically beautiful site in front of him, only to do a double take. He stared into the toilet bowl, water mixed with his own blood and petals pulled from his lungs, and a horrified, yet dull shock settled over him. Sitting among the miscellaneous petals and floating on the surface of the water was a single, full black rose. It was withered from coming up Crowley’s trachea and flecked with blood, but it was still whole nonetheless. 

_Fuck._

Getting worse, indeed. 

Crowley tore his eyes from the site, unable to look anymore, naively thinking that if he didn’t see it, it wasn’t there. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and stood on shaky legs before flushing the evidence of his illness down the toilet. 

While leaning over the sink to wash his hands, he made the mistake of glancing up and looking in the mirror. He winced; the site of his own gaunt expression staring back at his was almost too much for him. His skin was pale, his cheeks were sunken, and his golden eyes, though dull, seemed much bigger in their sockets. Crowley shut and eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath before turning away so he didn’t have to look anymore. He briefly wondered how much time he had left. He’d never allowed himself to think about it before, but there was no longer any escaping it. The black rose had been more than enough evidence of that. 

Anthony J. Crowley, demon formerly known as Crawly, was dying. 

////

Crowley couldn’t really remember when exactly when the symptoms first started, but then again, it wasn’t often an individual could pinpoint the exact moment they had fallen in love. It wasn’t like falling in love was something Crowley had wanted to do; he was a _demon_ , for Somebody’s sake, and it wasn’t natural for demons to love! In fact the word borderline repulsed him, but the feeling he got...that he didn’t mind so much (not that he’d ever admit it, though). While the feeling he didn’t mind, it was exactly that that had made him sick in the first place. 

Crowley, a demon, had fallen in love with humanity and this was the punishment he got for it. Quiet a horrible thing to be _punished_ for loving, but that’s besides the point. 

If he was going to think about back when he might have contracted the disease, he would have to go through a mental checklist in his mind. When had it been when breathing started to feel a little bit more difficult? When had his chest started feeling heavier? When did his lungs start to have a persistent burning feeling? When was it that he could hear and feel the rattle in his lungs with every breath he took? When did the first petal appear, falling from his lips? The first drops of blood?

If he had to try and guess, Crowley would say it probably would have started sometime around the Flood. In his distant memory, he remembered standing with Aziraphale during one of their first meetings. They were surrounded by a crowd of people, but he and Aziraphale were the only ones who were paying any real attention to the great ark before them. Thunder rumbled among the dark clouds in the distance.The angel had just told him that the Almighty was getting ready to send down a storm, the likes of which humanity had never seen. It was to drown _everybody_. 

The feelings that rose up in Crowley after heard that were conflicting and unexpected to say the least. He was shocked, confused, and even somewhat disgusted. They weren’t typical feelings a demon should have felt after hearing so many people would die. He knew he should feel excited or at the very least, indifferent, but he felt far from either of those things. So many innocent people were about to die for no reason and they didn’t have a clue.

Shortly after these feelings rose up in him, Crowley could feel a tickle in his throat and a slight pinch in his lungs. He ignored them. 

Incredulous at the news and ignoring the weird things he had just felt in his respiratory system, he furrowed his eyebrows to turned from the ark, opting to look at Aziraphale instead. “Even the _kids_?” he had asked. Aziraphale had simply nodded mutely and looked away. He didn’t dare to question the Almighty, though it was clear that he didn’t agree with Her decision. “You can’t kill kids,” Crowley had told him. 

Before Aziraphale could answer him, the tickle in Crowley’s throat grew much stronger and he coughed once, hard. The tickle only subsided slightly, but there was a heavy feeling in his chest. He tried to ignore it again.

Aziraphale told him that they couldn’t question God and Crowley had rolled his eyes. Together they stood in silence, watching the ark until it started to rain. Crowley looked up to the sky and thought despite himself and his demonic nature, _This isn’t right_. The tickle hit him again and he coughed hard into the palm of his hand, thinking maybe he had something caught in his throat. When he pulled his hand away to look, there was nothing. 

He shook off the feeling and it didn’t come again. This was his first mistake of many, or perhaps his second if his accidental sympathy for humanity is to be factored in as his first. 

Through the years, the tickle persisted at strange times with no apparent cause, but nothing really came of it. Sometimes Crowley would feel _something_ inside him, pushing up against the walls of his lungs and up his throat, but after a forceful cough, nothing would come out. It was more than a bit worrying to say the least, but he could never find the apparent cause of it. It usually happened whenever he was feeling something or humanity or when he was off keeping up his side of the Arrangement with Aziraphale. While it might have been obvious to some, Crowley never made the connection between the two. 

Usually it was only a tickle or pinch here and there, but the first of the petals came in Edinburgh. Crowley had just performed the minor miracle Aziraphale was supposed to do when his lungs started _burning_. He felt like he had just swallowed hellfire or snorted sulfur. With one hand pressed against his chest where the burning sensation was and another pressed to his mouth, he doubled over and coughed hard. It was excruciatingly painful. His lungs and throat were simply on fire and he’d never felt anything like it before. He wondered if drinking holy water would have hurt less than this. 

Crowley nearly crumpled to his knees before the pain subsided and he was left breathing hard and his body trembling all over. Of course, no one around noticed his struggles because humans didn’t really Notice that kind of thing. 

Slowly, he straightened back up from his hunched position and pulled a shaky hand away from his mouth. Much to his surprise and horror, he was actually holding something. He glanced down and there, in the palm of his hand, sat three begonia petals. All he could do was stare at them, his mind somehow both blank and racing at the same time. Finally, he had realized what had been plaguing him all these centuries. He’d only heard of this happening once to another demon, but he wasn’t sure if it was true or not. Now he had indisputable proof. He also knew that if it was true, it would be to say that the end result was also true and it was _not_ pretty. 

Crowley had contracted Hanahaki Disease. And it had a one hundred percent fatality rate. 

With fear clouding his mind like never before, Crowley dropped the petals and fled. 

The petals persisted no matter how hard Crowley tried to get them to go away. He had tried so many things in an attempt to cure himself, but everything had proven useless. If he felt himself feeling for humanity and felt the familiar tickle in his throat and burn in his lungs, he would punish himself. 

He also did his best to stay away from Aziraphale as not to work with the Arrangement without outright breaking it. It hurt to keep his distance from someone he subconsciously considered a friend (his only true friend actually, but it’s not like he would ever admit that), but if he didn’t want to end up like he knew he might, he had to. Every time he had to perform a good deed on Aziraphale’s behalf, he would cough up petals and every time he coughed up petals, there were more. Over time, he got used to the pain in his lungs and throat. It would have been a good thing to not feel the pain, but getting _used to it_ was not a good sign.

 _It’s getting worse._

Crowley tried not to think about it, but he couldn’t help it. 

_It’s getting worse._

The French Revolution was no help for Crowley’s illness. Aziraphale had seen him cough up nothing before, but this was the first time he had seen him cough since the petals had started. However, Aziraphale didn’t know that his best friend was coughing up petals and wouldn’t know for a very, very long time. Crowley was a sneaky person and hid his illness very well. He might have had the illness because of his failure to be a proper demon, but at the end of the day, he was still a demon after all. 

Feeling remorse for the innocent people getting guillotined had caused a few petals to come up, but it was nothing Crowley hadn’t dealt with before. It was standing in a cell of the Bastille and freeing Aziraphale that ended up being the real problem. He’d freed his friend from his chains and Aziraphale had miracled himself into peasants clothes. They were just about to leave for crêpes together when a painful coughing fit overtook Crowley, bringing tears to his eyes. He doubled over and coughed violently into his hand, feeling petals fill it. Aziraphale was taken aback, but quickly placed a tentative and comforting hand on his back. 

After a moment, the episode subsided and he straightened up, thankful for his dark glasses so the angel wouldn’t see the inadvertent tears in his eyes. Crowley hid his hand half behind him, clenched into a fist. He could feel the petals in his grip. Aziraphale’s hand remained and he was surprised to find that it was actually somewhat comforting. 

“My dear boy, are you alright?” Aziraphale asked, concern evident in both his voice and face. 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Crowley lied convincingly. Not that it was very hard to convince Aziraphale in the first place. He was rather gullible. “Don’t worry about it. Anyway, crêpes?” 

“Ah! Right, of course!” Aziraphale smiled, suddenly remembering and forgetting about the ailment on his friend. He began to leave the cell. 

Crowley began to follow, but not before glancing into the palm of his hand. He was surprised to see many more petals than he had thought he would have found. He was lucky one hadn’t spilled and Aziraphale hadn’t seen them! But not only were there more petals, there was _blood_ this time.

_It’s getting worse._

Shaking the nervous feeling, he discreetly dropped the petals to the cell floor and wiped the blood off on his clothing. He was thankful he preferred to wear dark things. Crowley followed Aziraphale out with a single thought plaguing him mind. 

_It’s getting worse._

While his illness was steadily progressing, it was during the London Blitz of World War II when things really took a turn for the worse. Aziraphale stood in the wreckage after the bombing of the church, fretting over losing his books when Crowley wrenched free the briefcase and handed it to him. “Little demonic miracle of my own,” he said with a smirk and ignored the pain he felt in his upper torso. He strolled away, leaving Aziraphale to watch him go.

When he was out of site of the angel, he turned and ducked into a forgotten alley before suddenly crumpling to his hands and knees, hitting the concrete hard. There, he was hit with the biggest wave of nausea he’d ever felt in his life and coughed hard and violently. Then the barrage of petals started. Petals upon petals stained with blood spilled from his lips onto the ground below. There seemed to be no end to them. Just petals and petals and _Fuck why are there so many goddamn_ petals?

It seemed like an eternity before the stream of them ended and he spat out the excess blood from his mouth. He stayed like that for a moment and when the ringing in his ears finally died down, he found that he could no longer hear the planes of the bombs falling. The Blitz had ceased.

Unable to stand, Crowley opted to sit against the wall, breathing heavily and his entire body trembling. The burning of his lungs and throat were almost as bad as they had been the first time he had coughed up petals all those years ago. His eyes were closed and he couldn’t tell if it was tears or sweat that dripped down his cheeks. Crowley mustered up all the brain power he could for the moment, struggling to come up with a reason for why that spell had just hit him so hard. He hadn’t felt any particular love for humanity moments ago; he just didn’t understand what-

Crowley’s eyes snapped open and he stared up at the cloudy sky with his hazy vision. _Aziraphale._

_It’s getting worse._

In fact, it was much, much worse than Crowley could have ever imagined. And there was nothing he could do. Falling in love with an angel turned out to be so much worse than just falling in love with humanity. 

_AZIRAPHALE_

Crowley had always been a strange, but not to say an uninteresting individual. After a good six thousand-ish years with him, Aziraphale was no stranger to this fact, but he wouldn’t have his friend any other way. It was however, a bit bit troublesome when Crowley started to act strange, or at least, stranger than usual. It was almost as if something had changed within him over night with no explanation. It had left Aziraphale feeling isolated and alienated from his friend. All he could do was ponder what had brought on the sudden change. 

If he had to place a time when the switch flipped in Crowley, Aziraphale could trace it back to somewhere around World War II. Just after it ended, to be precise. After the incident at the church in which Crowley had saved Aziraphale’s books, they hadn’t seen much of each other, much to Aziraphale’s disappointment. It was frightening navigating the war alone, but he had managed.

After the war ended, he had invited Crowley out to lunch with him as a bit of a celebration and a thank you which the demon would have never accepted verbally. They went out together, but there was something off. Crowley seemed more withdrawn and was speaking less. At first, Aziraphale didn’t think much of it; he just wanted to enjoy the night with his closest friend. 

It was when Crowley started seeing Aziraphale less that he allowed himself to worry. Yes, they would meet every once and awhile, but the meetings were much less frequent than they had been and the conversations turned shorter and more one sided. Aziraphale would carry on about a topic and Crowley would only offer a few words here and there. It was lonely and Aziraphale feared he might have done something wrong and upset his friend. Whenever he would try and ask for an explanation, Crowley would only brush him off, saying that nothing had changed and everything was the same as always. 

Sometimes, there were moments or days where he seemed like himself again before something would just _change_. If Aziraphale were watching him, he would always see the exact moment it did. Crowley would be acting like himself, normal, when everything about him would just turn around. 

Sometimes it was subtle. Crowley would wince like he was in pain, pressing a hand to his chest or his throat. Then, just as quickly as it came, the pained expression on his face would be wiped off. He’d then throw on a disguise and make up some excuse about why he suddenly had to leave. It never mattered if they were in the middle of a conversation, nor did it matter how hard Aziraphale tried to persuade Crowley to stay. When he wanted to go, he would just take off without so much as another word. He might promise “next time” with a cheeky smile, but Aziraphale stopped getting his hopes up long ago. 

Those were the days that hurt and were lonely. He would just sit by himself and wonder what had happened to his closest friend. What had made him not want to be around him anymore?

Sometimes, it was much more obvious (and much more worrisome for that matter). It wasn’t often when Aziraphale would catch the beginnings of a fit before Crowley suddenly took off. These times, the pained looks were short and more surprised instead. He would quickly press a hand to his mouth and turn away from Aziraphale. And then he would cough and he would cough _hard_. It must have been painful for Crowley, but it was just as painful for Aziraphale to witness. It sounded like he was perpetually choking on something that was impossible to completely expel. 

Aziraphale had long since learned that whenever this happened, offering help was useless, but he still offered anyway. Regardless, Crowley would always vanish without another word (not that he could get one out in the first place) and the angel would always be left alone, terrified for his best friend. He didn’t know what was wrong with him, but Aziraphale always worried that whenever the fits happened, it might be the last time he’d ever see Crowley. 

It wasn’t like the sporadic coughing fits were anything new; Crowley had had them for as long as Aziraphale could remember. He could recall hundreds of times where they happened, but it was only after the war that they had gotten so much worse. If they were lucky, months would go by, many even years without a really bad one, and Crowley would be almost back to his old self again. And then, a severe one would hit and he would become withdrawn again. These periods could last for weeks and through the whole time, Aziraphale wouldn’t hear a word from Crowley. Even his he hadn’t witnessed it, Aziraphale could always tell when Crowley had an episode by himself due to the long absences. 

During the whole Apocalypse-That-Wasn’t, Crowley had almost been his normal self. It almost seemed like even his own body was too preoccupied to be at war with itself. If they both hadn’t been so stressed out about trying to stop the end of the world, Aziraphale would have enjoyed having his old friend back. And then, after eleven years of fretting and the End not so swiftly avoided, Crowley went back into one of his “withdrawn” periods. It would be many years before he found out what was wrong with him. 

_AZIRAPHALE | 20XX_

It was a calm night in Soho, London. The weather was looking good for both that night and the next day, not a cloud on the radar. Crowley and Aziraphale were in the back room of Aziraphale’s bookshop and it was one of those rare moments of clarity. While paler than usual and maybe a little thinner, too, Crowley seemed to be acting like his old self. The other was half expecting him to leap up and any moment, mutter a half-assed excuse, and leave, but a few hours had passed the same as they did now and that never happened. 

“So,” Crowley tried to say through his laughter, Aziraphale chuckling along with him (they’d both had a couple glasses and were each more than a bit tipsy at that point). “So, at that point, the guy is just laying there on the pavement, right? And he’s covered in, get this, _fucking pigeons_!” he cackled.

“Oh, Crowley, language, dear!” Aziraphale chided halfheartedly, letting out laughter of his own. The fits of giggling went on for a few minutes before they finally subsided with both of them uttering content sighs. Crowley then suddenly slapped his hands on his knees and stood. Less than gracefully, he excused himself to the bathroom, leaving Aziraphale to watch him leave the room. In his drunken haze, Aziraphale sighed dreamily and closed his eyes. He loved this feeling and being around Crowley like old times. He loved being around Crowley in general. Were he anymore drunk, he would have come to admit that he just _loved_ Crowley. 

He was thinking about taking a vacation, perhaps to the South Downs, and bringing Crowley along with him. It would be just the two of them in a tiny cottage by the ocean…

Aziraphale was startled from his daydream by Crowley stumbling unceremoniously back into the room. He looked up to see his friend looking panicked and pale and he had clearly sobered himself up. Upon seeing the state his friend was in, Aziraphale immediately sobered up, too, getting to his feet. “Crowley! What's-?”

“Er, sorry, just remembered, plants, gotta go…!” His words were quick and choppy; he couldn’t seem to keep a coherent thought together. He started walking out of the back room and into the front of the shop, making long strides towards the front door. 

“Crowley, please, wait a moment-!” Aziraphale tried, but was cut off when the man in question was suddenly overtaken but one of his fits. Hardly pausing his in his stride, he pressed a firm hand to his mouth and began to cough violently, nearly stumbling over a pile of books on the floor he hadn’t seen. Aziraphale trailed after him. “Oh please, Crowley, just stay a moment and let me help you,” he begged, but the next second, Crowley had exited the building and was gone. 

He was left standing alone in the middle of his bookshop, staring helplessly at the door Crowley had just fled through. He nearly felt sick to his stomach knowing that there was nothing he could do to help him. Unable to bear looking at the door any longer, Aziraphale lowered his eyes to the floor. He was surprised to see that just a few paces in front of his own feet sat a flower petal. Now _that_ hadn’t been there before, he was sure of it. 

Confused, Aziraphale bent down and picked it up, studying it closely. Now that he held it in his hands he could see that it wasn’t one flower petal, but it was more of a half formed geranium flower. What really startled him was that upon closer inspection, he could see that the petals had drops of _blood_ on them. 

Aziraphale nearly dropped the flower in shock. The only person that could have dropped it was Crowley, but Crowley didn’t seem to have any flowers on him, much less bloody ones. It was as if everything suddenly connected and fell into place. The coughing fits, the rattling in his throat as he tried to expel _something_ , the worsening episodes, the frequent absences and sudden exits. 

Aziraphale didn’t know what could have caused it or what exactly Crowley was dealing with, but what he did know was that he was terrified. He wanted nothing more than to confront him about it, but he knew that if he did, he wouldn’t be getting a straight answer. There was only one thing he could think of to do. Without thinking too much into it lest he wanted to talk himself out of it (and perhaps kill his friend in the process), Aziraphale returned to Heaven. 

////

Was it a bad idea? Yes, absolutely. But there was nowhere else he could turn. If there was one person in the entire cosmos that might know what was happening with Crowley, they were here. 

As quickly and as discreetly as he could, Aziraphale located the Infirmary, making his point not to look at any of the other angels, either the injured, nor the ones tending to their wounds. He could hear their whispering and feel their eyes, but he just ignored them, focusing on the task at hand. Thankfully, it didn’t take too long before he had located the person, or rather, archangel, he had been looking for. 

“Raphael,” he greeted tentatively.

The angel had their back to him, but turned at the sound of their name. Raphael’s face was usually neutral no matter the circumstances, but they appeared at least mildly surprised to see Aziraphale standing before them. “Aziraphale,” they said, nodding in greeting. “Interesting to see you again. I honestly thought I would never see you back here,” they admitted, their hands moving in a sweeping gesture. Here. Heaven. 

Their almost unnervingly silver eyes eyed him up and down briefly. Checking him for any injury that might prompt a visit to Heaven’s Infirmary, he supposed.

“Ah, yes, well, I have a, ah, _problem_ and I think you are the only one who might be able to fix it.”

Raphael raised their eyebrows in curiosity, a silent urge for him to continue. 

“What does it mean,” he paused and licked his lips. “What does it mean if a person is coughing up bloody flowers?” He lifted his hand and held out the geranium petals for Raphael’s inspection. The angel took them and held them close to their face, turning them over and studying them intently. Their eyebrows were furrowed before their eyes widened and they looked back up at him, suddenly very serious (well, more serious than a usually neutral person normally seems). 

“Did you find them like this? All together as a half formed flower?” they demanded. Their intense stare seemed to be boring right into his soul. 

Aziraphale gulped and nodded. 

Raphael shook their head and sighed. “Aziraphale, this is not good. Singular petals are one thing, blood is another, but whole flowers…?” They half turned away and tapped a finger to their lips, an expression of deep thought on their face. 

Aziraphale was suddenly gripped with fear, his heart felt like it was being squeezed with an icy hand. “What, what is it? Please, Raphael, tell me what’s wrong with him!” he demanded, voice cracking slightly with emotion. 

Once again, they sighed and turned back to him. Raphael’s eyes looked sad. “I presume this is about the demon Crowley?” 

Aziraphale nodded curtly, not even bothering to question why they knew that. 

“He is very ill,” they admitted, confirming Aziraphale’s suspicions and deepest fear. “And by the looks of it, there may not be a lot of time for him left. You see, he is infected with an illness called Hanahaki Disease. It is only a disease for demons and is a very specific kind of punishment.” 

They held out the flower between the two of them. “ _This_ is the punishment for loving as a demon. The point of it is the irony. First comes the petals: beautiful, worthy of love and appreciation.” They then held out their empty hand. “Then comes the blood. Nasty in theory, but beautiful and tragic in its own right. The illness progresses through the victim, while hauntingly beautiful at first, becomes horrible and tragic. The infected is then fated to die, forced to choke on their own love.” With that, they curled both hands into fists, crushing the withered geranium in their grip. 

At Aziraphale’s horrified expression, Raphael lowered their hands and shrugged. “Such is the cruel ingenuity of the damned.” 

Aziraphale felt dizzy and swayed on his feet, pressing a hand to his mouth much like Crowley had done earlier. He looked away from the site of the archangel holding the now crushed geranium; he felt like he might be sick or might burst into tears. Maybe both. 

_It isn’t fair_ , he thought helplessly. To be punished just for loving? Love is a natural emotion to all and Crowley was now paying the price. Slowly, Aziraphale lowered his hand and forced himself to look back to Raphael. Meeting their sympathetic and intense eyes was difficult. 

“Is there...is there something, _anything_ , you can do to help him?” he pleaded in a voice barely above a whisper. 

Raphael was in the middle of shaking their head before the paused and considered for a moment. “Well...there is one thing, but I do not think you will like it and I do not think Crowley would ever agree to it.” 

“Please, anything!” If there was any hope for saving Crowley, Aziraphale would do anything.

Raphael sighed, placing their hands on their hips. “Aside from reciprocated love, which I doubt is likely for a demon, there is a...surgery. You see, the flowers are rooted deep into the lungs. I do not know how long he has had this illness, but he has been on Earth for a very long time. That is a very long time to love and a longer time to harbor a serious illness such as Hanahaki. His roots will most likely be much deeper than most and will need to be removed using great effort. I believe I can do it though; they do not call me the Great Healer for nothing. Remove the roots, remove the flowers.

“But,” they added quickly upon seeing the hopeful look on Aziraphale’s face, “all feeling that caused the flowers will be, how should I put this, destroyed. Crowley will never love again. Not Earth, not humanity, and not you. He will be as he is meant to be: a demon through and through. Everything you have ever done for him will mean nothing,” they stated bluntly.

What little hope Aziraphale had left was crushed, much like the flower Raphael still held in their hand. “No…,” he whimpered, fully aware of how pathetic he sounded. “There...there just has to be another way…” 

Raphael smiled sadly at him, a look of sympathy and regret on their face. “I am sorry, Aziraphale. That is all that can be done. His time is almost up now. If neither of you are willing to go through with the surgery, at the very least, the best you can do for him now is make the comfortable and allow him to pass in peace.” 

At the thought of Crowley “passing,” even in peace, Aziraphale started to cry. The tears slipped quickly down his round, warm cheeks, he shoulders shuttering as he heaved in breath though the sobs escaping his lips. Raphael grimaced and handed him a towel before turning their back. 

“I apologize,” they told him and he pressed the towel to his eyes. “I am a healer because I cannot stand to see beings in pain, emotional or otherwise. Your distress causes me distress in return.” 

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale whimpered, wiping his eyes and forcing himself to calm down and catch his bearings. 

“No, please, do not be. As you have already seen, we cannot help our emotions.” They turned back to face him as he wiped the last of the dampness from his face. “I will not tell anyone of your visit. As the head of the Infirmary, I am bound by the human founded Hippocratic Oath, much like any other human health official. I must keep my silence and confidentiality of all of my patients. Should you manage to convince Crowley to go through with the surgery, I shall keep my silence on that matter, too.” 

Aziraphale nodded numbly, not really feeling anything, before turning. “Thank you, Raphael.”

They returned the nod, a sympathetic smile on their face, even if the other could no longer see it. “You are most welcome. I regret that there is nothing else I can do for you or for him. I hope these next few days are gentle with you, Aziraphale. Should there be anything else you need, the Infirmary doors are always open.”

Aziraphale didn’t bother responding; he felt like all the energy had left him. Coming back to Heaven had both enlightened him and burdened him more than he could ever imagine. 

////

It had been four days and in those four days, he had not seen nor heard from Crowley. This wasn’t an unusual occurrence but after their last meeting had ended mixed with the conversation with Raphael, he wasn’t feeling too confident about the state of Crowley’s health. Aziraphale knew that if he wanted to get anywhere, he could have to be the one to seek him out first as Crowley obviously didn’t even _want_ his help. It hurt knowing that after everything they've been through together in the past six thousand years, he didn’t trust him enough to let him help or to even tell him that he was sick. 

No matter how much he psyched himself up, Aziraphale just couldn’t muster the courage to go out and find him. An internal battle had been going on inside him ever since Raphael had explained what the disease was. He wanted nothing more than to go out and find Crowley, but going out to find him would mean that he would truly have to come to terms with the inevitable: Crowley, his closest and longest standing friend, was suffering and was going to die. He had only a few days left at most. 

Aziraphale just didn’t think he could handle that. He hadn’t even begun to _think_ about how to cope with whatever came after... 

He was sitting in the back room of the book shop, elbows on his knees and hands clasped together, his forehead resting on them. His eyes were closed and his mouth with pressed into a hard line. The site was almost serene; one might have thought he was praying. Maybe he would have been under different circumstances. Maybe he would have prayed if he was on better terms with Heaven. Maybe he would have prayed if he had any faith in Heaven at all. Maybe he would have prayed if it didn’t mean admitting to anyone who was listening that he was praying for the health of a demon. 

He hardly doubted it would have made a difference anyway. There was nothing anyone could do for Crowley anymore. 

Aziraphale sighed and rubbed at his forehead, trying to keep his mind blank. If he got to thinking, his thoughts would of course come back around to Crowley (as they often did, even before he knew he was ill). Thinking of Crowley would not be a good thing at the present time. He would only think of the illness. He might have thought of the good times they’d had before, but that would just make him even sadder. The good times were far behind them, that much he knew. If Crowley was coughing up copious amounts of blood and _entire_ flowers, then he might already be...already be...Aziraphale couldn’t even bring himself to actually think of it. 

A bang from somewhere within the bookshop startled him from his long think of nothing. It was the sound of the entrance door opening rather forcefully, and hitting the wall behind it. Aziraphale sighed, annoyed. Couldn’t people read these days? The sign on the door clearly started that the shop was closed indefinitely. And it was well past midnight in any case! 

“I’m sorry, but we’re closed! I’m going to have to ask you to see yourself out, please,” Aziraphale called, not moving from his spot. There was no response, but he could hear the sound of a stack of books falling over. This time, he sighed in frustration and opened his eyes before standing. He exited the back room while speaking, “Did you not hear me? This shop is closed-” He stopped dead in his tracks upon witnessing the sight in front of him.

Crowley was stumbling around and using the shelves as support, trying to make it, presumably, to the back room where Aziraphale had just been. Blood dribbled from his lips and covered the front of his shirt, petals and flowers were strewn about behind him. He was also soaking wet, implying that he had walked to the bookshop in the rain. 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale cried, rushing forward. He managed to catch him just before he crumbled to the ground from his fatigue. “Don’t worry, dear. It’ll, it’ll be alright. Come now,” he rambled, worry clouding his mind. He half led, half dragged Crowley to the back room before miracling a blanket and some pillows on the floor. There, he laid the ailing man down and pulled the blanket over him, making sure he was comfortable. Or at least, as comfortable he could be laying on the floor and in his state. 

After he was situated, Aziraphale miracled a bowl of water and a towel next to him (there was no time to actually fetch them) and proceeded in trying to clean the blood from Crowley’s face. He hadn’t even realized just how badly his own hands were shaking. 

Crowley wasn’t wearing his sunglasses and his dull, golden eyes flickered with effort to keep them open and stay conscious. All the while, Aziraphale tried to whisper words of encouragement, his voice trembling almost as bad as his hands. He hoped that Crowley was just coherent enough to decipher then, but not enough as to hear how nervous and afraid Aziraphale really was. “It’ll be alright, dear, don’t worry. You’ll be just fine. I’ll clean you up and you’ll be just like new…” In the back of his mind, he almost felt like he was lying. 

The demon glanced up at Aziraphale’s face, eyes still hazy and lids still fluttering. “An...gel…,” he breathed laboriously. 

“Shh, shh, hush now. Don’t speak; save your energy. Just let me work.” 

Against Aziraphale’s wishes, Crowley still tried to push the syllables from his mouth. “Z...Zira...I…” He trailed off, unable to string the words together, but letting out a deep breath, his eyes rolling back. 

Aziraphale was suddenly overtaken with terror and panic. “Crowley? Crowley!” He pitched forward and leaned over the demon before letting out a sigh of relief. Crowley was still breathing; he’d only fallen asleep (or unconscious; Aziraphale was unsure, but wasn’t sure if he wanted to know). Okay. That was okay. Let him...let him sleep for a moment. He’ll need to gather his strength. 

With a yet another heavy sigh, Aziraphale sat back on his heels and watched his sleeping companion. After the adrenaline had worn off, he took the time to really look at Crowley and could see just how seriously the disease had taken its toll on his body. Crowley was thin, much thinner than even just a few days ago. He looked so ill, practically a skeleton. His skin was ashy and paler than usual, a cool sweat covered his forehead. His usually well cared for hair was rather unkempt and looking like it hadn’t been properly washed in days. 

The sight was far too painful to bear, and Aziraphale had to turn away. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. 

_Why did it have to come to this_?

Crowley was an inherently good person (or at least, better than he should have been) and this was the price he was paying for that goodness. He’d accidentally fallen in love, with humanity, Aziraphale presumed, and he was being punished for it with a horribly and slow, suffering death. 

////

It was a good few hours before Crowley finally came to, but Aziraphale could tell he was very much disoriented and tragically lost looking. He had been reading, sitting just a few feet away on the floor and waiting for him to wake up. The moment he heard Crowley groan, he was by his side in an instant, ready to care for him. It took a moment for Crowley’s hazy eyes and settle on Aziraphale. 

“Aziraphale,” he said quietly. “What…?”

“Shh, don’t speak,” he hushed him. “You need to save your energy for now.”

Crowley stared up at him for a moment, or more through him as his unfocused eyes suggested. He then coughed weakly a few times. The sight was surprising to say the least; this was the first time Aziraphale had actually seen him cough up the flowers. A few red rose petals and a full purple hyacinth exited his mouth in a puff of air, all speckled with his blood. Aziraphale wiped them away and placed them to the side, being forced to listen to the tragic and painful sounds of Crowley’s labored breathing. He could practically hear the sounds of the blooms caught in his lungs, rattling with each breath he took. 

“Oh Crowley…,” Aziraphale whispered tenderly, shaking his head in disbelief. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Crowley didn’t answer for a long moment. “I didn’t...I was afraid,” he admitted slowly. “It’s an embarrassment. And I didn’t want to worry you.” 

Embarrassed to love. Of course; that was very Crowley. 

“But Crowley...If you had told me sooner, I could have helped you. We could have gotten you help somehow.”

Crowley laughed bitterly before grimacing in pain. “There’s no help for me. Never was.”

Aziraphale was growing angry very quickly. “Don’t say things like that!” he snapped, fear in his voice. “There’s still hope; we can-!”

“Don’t bother, angel,” he said listlessly before turning his head away. He was completely indifferent to Aziraphale’s emotions and the situation at hand. It was the behavior of a man who knew he was dying and had accepted it.

 _How long_? Aziraphale wanted to ask. _How long ago did you figure out you were going to die? How long did it take for you to accept it_? Instead, he didn’t say that, silently rising in frustration at Crowley’s indifference. Without him realizing it, the frustration manifested itself as tears that dripped down his cheeks as he shook with both rage and sorrow. 

“Crowley, _please_ ,” he pleaded desperately. His voice was thick with the tears and he knew Crowley could hear it. “We can get help! We can..we can...we can _do something_!” He couldn’t stop stuttered and tripping over his words. “I don’t care what it takes; I’ll do anything to help you! I’ll even...There’s a surgery Raphael can do to fix you! It’s not the best, but you won’t die. They can help you and no one will ever know! The Hippocratic oath-!” 

He was cut off by a soft sound coming from Crowley’s lips. Aziraphale couldn’t tell his he was being hushed or if the man below him was actually hissing. “Won’t matter,” he grunted simply. 

“It won’t...And why the hell not?” Aziraphale couldn’t restrain himself from shouting. Borderline hysteria and desperation where building within his chest and throat. He felt that at any moment, he might burst into sobs. 

Crowley’s response was simple. “Nothing can help me anymore.”

Aziraphale was moment from shouting at him again, calling him a fool (and maybe a few other choice words), before he paused. A thought had just struck him; it was painful, but it had to be true. “Is it…,” he licked his dry lips. “It’s not a _person_ you love, Crowley?” Love in general didn’t reduce a person to this. If he simply loved humanity, it wouldn’t have crippled him as much as it had. This was the only other explanation. 

The way Crowley tensed up accompanied with his cutting silence told Aziraphale everything he needed to know, confirming his suspicions. He didn’t want it to be true, but it was. Aziraphale pressed a hand to his mouth and let out a silent shuttering gasp, his eyes screwed shut. He was glad Crowley wasn’t looking at him. 

_Oh, Go..Sata...Oh_ somebody, he thought, his heart aching in a way it never had before. It was in that moment, his sober self admitted that he loved Crowley. He’d loved him for a very, very long time, and now that he was on the brink of losing him, he learned that he had loved another. Crowley had fallen in love with someone who didn’t love him and now he was dying because of it.

He didn’t know how much more of this his heart could take. Aziraphale stood, sharply excusing himself to the bathroom, just to get away for a moment and gather himself. He braced himself on the edge of the counter top, staring at his own defeated reflection in the mirror. A single, shuttering sob escaped his lips before he drew himself back to his full height, dried his eyes, and took a deep breath. 

After deeming himself calm enough, he returned to the back room and sat back down next to Crowley as he had before. He was shocked and terrified at the sight that greeted him. Aziraphale had only been gone for a few minutes, yet in that short time he was gone, Crowley had somehow gotten _worse_. His skin looked nearly translucent and breathing was obviously a very difficult task for him. With every wheeze of breath he took, the petals would appear.

Fear seized Aziraphale. While he might not have wanted to admit it, the end was coming. “C-Crowley?” he gasped. “He...hey, look at me. You’re going...going to be alright.” He held up his shaky hands as if to touch him, but there was nothing he could do for him anymore. 

Crowley gritted his teeth, his eyes tightly shut. He moved his head in the direction of Aziraphale’s voice. “Hey...ang...angel…”

He would have told him not to speak, to save what little breath he had, but these were his last...his last moments. He needed to hear what he had to say. While his voice was shaking, Aziraphale’s tone was tender, much like a lover. “Yes, Crowley, dear?” he asked, grasping one of Crowley’s cold hands in both of his own. 

The words were physically difficult to push out. “I’m...I’m sorry, angel,” he said. His breathing started to slow and seem less labored. 

That was the last thing he had expected Crowley to say. “What? N...no. No, no, no, no, no! Crowley, darling, please, just hold on, _please_! Oh please, Crowley, _don’t leave me_!” he begged, clutching Crowley’s still hand tightly. The tears were back and now flowed freely. There was no point in trying to hide them anymore. All the while, the man in question remained unresponsive. “No, Crowley, I...I... _fuck_ …!”

With shaking hands, he brought Crowley’s own to his lips in a chaste and trembling kiss. His whole body shook. “Please, don’t go, I’m begging you. I...I love you, Crowley. I’m so, so sorry I’m so late in saying it,” he whimpered. Crowley didn’t respond. Through Aziraphale’s tear filled vision, he couldn’t see if his chest was rising and falling, but the wheezing had stopped. That was a bad sign, the worst. 

Aziraphale began to openly sob, dropping both his and Crowley’s hand into his lap. “I’m sorry. I love you. I’m sorry…” He just couldn’t stop repeating it. Nothing he said mattered anymore. It wouldn’t bring Crowley back to him. 

Or at least, that’s what he had thought.

He barely felt it, but he knew it had happened. Crowley’s hand twitched slightly in his lap. Aziraphale forced himself to quiet down, choking back the sobs. “C...Crowley?”

It happened so quickly, Aziraphale almost didn’t register it. One second, Crowley was laying still on the floor, and then the next, he was sitting up, eyes wide and clearer than they had seemed in months. Faster than he had expected him to be able to move, Crowley pulled his hand from Aziraphale’s grip and placed both hands to his mouth. 

Then he began to cough and there were flowers. _Oh god_ , were there flowers. Petals upon petals and flowers upon flowers poured from his mouth, spilling from his cupped hands and onto is lap below. 

First came the flowers. Then came the blood. The blood had probably always been pouring out since the fit started, sticking the flowers together, but Aziraphale didn’t fully register just what he was seeing until a moment later. Was this...was this how it ended? Was Hanahaki a killer much like hypothermia, the sufferer suddenly seized with a moment of clarity before they perished? The more flowers spilled from his lungs however, the more Aziraphale started to think maybe it wasn’t the end. 

Aziraphale didn’t think he’d ever seen so many flowers in his entire life. If seemed to be just an endless stream of petals and flowers and blood that were expelled from his lungs. Crowley coughed up roses and buttercups and tulips and so many, many others. Aziraphale felt slightly guilty for finding a sort of morbid beauty of it all. All he could do was pat Crowley’s back in an attempt to help him expel everything (and prevent his choking, they were coming out so fast). 

A whole minute passed like that before the steady stream of flowers finally slowed to a trickle and finally stopped. There were blood covered flowers littered everywhere and piled up in Crowley’s lap. He lowered his trembling hands, breathing heavily and gulping in air that he hadn’t been able to breathe properly for centuries. Aziraphale kept a hand on his back, rubbing in soothing circles and watching him expectantly, waiting for him to say something. 

“Water,” he croaked. Aziraphale was up in an instant, hurrying to the kitchen as fast as he could and fetching him a glass of water. He brought it back and Crowley gulped it down like he had just gotten out of the desert after being stranded for years. He held the empty cup out to Aziraphale, still gasping, who quickly brought him some more (he downed that in seconds, too). Aziraphale didn’t even notice the blood that had gotten on Crowley’s hands were getting all over the cup and onto his own until his third visit to the kitchen. He made sure to grab a few towels in order to clean them both up. 

It was only after his fifth cup of water that Crowley finally set the cup aside and took in a deep breath, no longer gasping for it. He took the towel offered to him and wiped the blood from his hands and face, Aziraphale doing the same. In the moment of silence that passed, Aziraphale wrinkled his nose at the sickly sweet smell of the flowers mixed with blood. He was taken aback when Crowley suddenly turned to him. “What did you say?” 

“I...what?” Aziraphale asked, confused.

Crowley repeated himself, “What did you say? Just before. When I was about to die.” 

Were the memory not so fresh in his mind, Aziraphale would have made a smartass comment, something along the lines of “Oh, so you’re not going to die on my bookshop floor, now?” Instead, he winced, thinking back to the horrible sight of Crowley looking so still and sickly pale. He tried to remember what he had said. “I said...oh…” His cheeks and the tips of his ears flushed red when he realized what Crowley was referring to. “I said I...erm...love you…”

Aziraphale might have been an angel, loving was in his nature, but confessing to the one you actually love is always difficult. Especially when you have been around them for six thousand years. 

“And?” Crowley pressed.

“And what?” He was starting to get a bit flustered and defensive. Now Aziraphale had never had a real romantic partner before, but he was pretty sure Crowley was _not_ acting appropriately for someone who had just been confessed to. 

“Did you mean it?”

“I...Well of course I did! Why would I have said it if I didn’t mean it?” he snapped, offended. Then, he understood just what Crowley was getting at. He remembered something Raphael had said. Reciprocated love was one of the cures.

Oh. _Oh._

“You...you loved _me_?” Aziraphale asked, incredulous. He was staring at Crowley with wide and awed eyes.

Now it was Crowley who winced, cringing at the word. “Shh! Now don’t go spreading it around!” he hissed. 

Anyone else might have been offended, but not Aziraphale. He knew Crowley well enough for that. “Love” was not an emotion he liked to admit having (even though he had just been struggling with a serious illness surrounded around it). 

With a tender smile, Aziraphale reached forward and took one of Crowley’s (now clean) hands and brought it but to his lips, much like before, but thankfully under very different circumstances. His warm breath ghosted over the back of it, causing Crowley to shudder in a pleasurable way. “I’m glad,” Aziraphale said before placing a kiss there. 

“Y...yeah, me, too,” Crowley said, a pink hue on his cheeks. His own color was already starting to creep back into his skin. 

Aziraphale lowered their hands and leaned forward to rest his forehead against Crowley’s. The pair shared nervous, yet lovestruck smiles, much like they were children. Both of their faces began to creep forward without them really realizing and their lips met each other in the middle. 

High on the euphoria of kissing the love of his life for the first time, Aziraphale was able to ignore to metallic taste on Crowley’s lips. He let out a content sigh through his nose and he could feel Crowley’s lips smile against his own. Surprisingly, the demon’s lips were much warmer than Aziraphale would have expected, albeit a bit chapped, even after all the water he drank. He couldn’t help but feel like that was where he belonged. With one of Crowley’s hands pressed to his hip, the other resting gently on the side of his neck, and both of his own braced on Crowley’s shoulders. 

In hindsight, it was very funny. After all those years of unknowingly pining for each other, it had only taken one violent and tragic near death for them to finally come together. They would probably laugh about it later when the wounds weren't so fresh. 

Crowley playfully nipped at Aziraphale’s bottom lip. Laughing slightly, he pulled away and rested his forehead back on Crowley’s, lovingly looking into his eyes. “I love you, dear,” he whispered. 

Crowley sighed, a good-natured smile still on his face. “I...I love you, too, angel.” At his verbal confession, a straggler petal fell from his lips and into his lap. Maybe Aziraphale loved him enough to mostly cure his ailment, but there was still the whole “loving humanity” matter. He probably wouldn’t fully cease coughing up petals anytime soon, but for now, he was alive, and that was what mattered. 

There was also still the matter of cleaning up all the petals and flowers and blood from the floor, but they would get to that soon enough (and by they, it would probably be Aziraphale cleaning the human way while Crowley made fun of him for not just miracling it away). For now, they had to make up for thousands of years of lost time.

**Author's Note:**

> wow i wrote this in two days after finishing another 9000+ word fic and if that's not dedication, idk what is. anyway, hanahaki is one of my favorite tropes and i was thinking since demons aren't really supposed to love, it's kind of the perfect punishment. 
> 
> FLOWER MEANINGS  
> chrysanthemum - love; slighted love  
> camellia - longing  
> carnation - i wish i could be with you; rejection; longing  
> marigold - cruelty; grief  
> black rose - death  
> begonia - beware  
> geranium - folly  
> purple hyacinth - i am sorry; sorrow  
> red rose - i love you
> 
> my good omens tumblr is ajcrowlies.tumblr.com


End file.
